


Coming Home

by PromisesArePieCrust



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Season 3 finale</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've done only a bit of research, so please suspend your disbelief for me. ;) Ceylon (modern Sri Lanka) was a stop on shipping routes from London to Melbourne in the 20s, but I've taken much liberty with timing, accommodations, etc.

He emerged from the ship in the harbour at Ceylon to the smells of fish and unfamiliar spices. 

A few weeks ago he had worked out that it was feasible to meet her (roughly) half way, and now a plane ride and mid-sized sea vessel later, he was here, and would travel back to Melbourne with her. Her ship from England would not arrive for another two days, giving him time to while away in this strange place; two days of trying not to obsess over how their vague plans might turn out. 

Their plans couldn’t truthfully even be called plans, rather a series of excited (over-optimistic?) arrangements that they had agreed to by terse telegrams. Having little familiarity with each other’s writing styles, the telegrams proved to be difficult to interpret completely, allowing a lot of room for mis-reading between the lines. (Was that a flirtation or a brush-off? Did that sound caustic?)

The thought that occupied him most was that their trip back to Melbourne would entail spending roughly three weeks on a ship alone together but for the company of strangers. It held all of the hope and possibility of a honeymoon, to be alone with her on a ship, on a type of vacation together, with little to do but…oh, my, thinking of what they could do made him dizzy. He tried hard to rid himself of the honeymoon analogy; what had they settled, truly? The telegrams did not lend themselves to disclosure, and her brief stay in England allowed him to send only one letter, written the day she flew. She herself had written two letters, the second of which arrived just barely in time for him to leave, and while her letters were sweet, they were hardly admissions of a burning love or promises of any kind. Also, they were already quite old—Phryne’s life moved at a break-neck pace, and months can mean dramatic changes. He was dancing on a knife edge—bliss on one side, thorough disappointment on the other, and in such a distinctly unfamiliar geographical location, this dance was taking more courage than he would have anticipated while blithely making these plans in Melbourne. 

On the voyage to Ceylon, he finally got a sense for how appropriate it is to describe the sensation of emotional overwhelmedness as being “at sea.” Staring into the water at length for someone in a philosophical frame of mind can be a dangerous thing. Fortunately for him, emotional dangers aside, he largely was in a lover’s frame of mind, deep in sweet imaginings and hope. He would sometimes go to the decks at night, watching the deep black, thinking this must be what it would be like to travel in space, and what a delight it would be to fly through space with Phryne. Wrapped in a blanket, suspended in space, with that amazing woman. These were the types of odd reveries that possessed him, irrational and delightful. He was deeply eager to see the woman who had changed his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Phryne sat on a deck chair and considered what she knew about love. She watched the waves and allowed them to massage her active mind until she could reach a state conducive to serious consideration. 

Her first thought was that love, in its many shades, is learned and emulated. This became a very depressing thought, as she considered her role models for adult love. Unkind, dismissive and belittling were the three words that popped into her head when she thought of her parents’ union. While she had witnessed a happy, heartfelt greeting between the two when they first arrived in England, the outrageous bellowing had not been kept at bay for a full two days. The sound of her mother crying alone in the library one night left Phryne fairly certain that, while their marriage was technically ‘saved’ it was still distant, and, with brutal honesty, worthless. She wanted nothing to do with anything that resembled this. Feeling the discord in her family home was a hard transition for Phryne to make after the hope and elation she felt from Jack’s kiss and his quiet, affectionate assurance at the airfield, but this sobering glimpse into domestic life might have been what she needed, she reflected cynically. 

But humans were resilient, she reminded herself. Any doubt of that was removed by the war. If people could learn to trust other people after watching that horror, surely she could learn a new way to love, a better way. Her thoughts wended to the family of an early schoolmate in England. She hand’t thought of them in close to 20 years, and couldn’t immediately remember the family name…Henry? No, Harrison. Some circumstances that she couldn’t recall had her stay with the Harrison family for a month one summer. It was, in fact, the only summer she knew this schoolmate, as Phryne was expelled from the school the following year. But she remembered thinking her to be uniquely kind in the new social circle she had entered. What struck Phryne now, remembering the experience of that summer month as an adult, was the ease and grace of their family life. Phryne remembered the startling sensation of her shoulders and stomach relaxing when she sat down to dinner and there were no punishing looks or icy silences. The children chattered merrily with their parents about their forts in the woods and the patch of nettles they found just in time to avoid falling in. The parents frequently leaned their heads together and spoke in low tones to each other and smiled. Once, while relaxing outdoors one Sunday, Phryne heard them disagree, could hear the familiar tense voices, and she felt her muscles ready to flee, uncomprehending of why the other children didn’t sense the imminent danger. Phryne became worried for the other kids and grabbed their arms, feeling like she was pulling them from a dangerous ocean into a lifeboat. The parents noticed her startled reaction. ‘Phryne, dear, what is it?’ ‘You were…upset. I thought we should go,’ she offered lamely. ’No dear, don’t go. People disagree sometimes. It’s not a problem.’ And it was true—there wasn’t a problem. There were no clenched fists, no red faces with pounding veins. Just two grown people talking and disagreeing. It was an enlightening moment.

With some effort Phryne shook herself from that web of memories. She held in her hand the single letter that had reached her from Jack. It was a measured and thoughtful letter, which she would have expected, but also deeply sentimental, which initially surprised her but on reflection did not surprise her at all. She smiled at it, protecting it as the wind whipped its edges. In it, he had likened her to a prism which took all of his understanding about life—men, women, love, work—and broke it into tiny pieces he could analyse, reject, accept or modify. She wouldn’t have guessed that being likened to a prism would be so gratifying, or that her body would respond to it as though it was erotic text. 

It surprised her to feel such an attachment to the missive, occasionally pulling it out not to read, but just to look at, and sometimes even, heaven help her, to touch her lips to the page, imagining his hand pulling across it as he wrote. 

She had invited him to come after her. What she imagined this meant she couldn’t say—it was a broad, strange request, spoken in a moment of delight, and now, the result of it had come: he had left Australia, and was meeting her in a strange land to accept her romantic overture. She would see the man she loved in two days. She wanted it to be a good, worthy love.


	3. Chapter 3

He filled the entire day before her arrival with a vigorous, punishing hike. His reasons were diverse. First, while their ship unloaded and reloaded, they would be on the island for another three days before leaving for Australia, and he would enjoy playing tour guide for her. Secondly, he craved some distraction to ease his nerves; he honestly couldn’t have been more nervous if he were meeting her at the alter instead of at the dock. And finally, he desperately needed the physical exertion. For the past months he had purposefully kept his intimate thoughts of Phryne extremely generic, and, if at all possible, above the neck (which in itself held plenty of opportunity). However, his night-time imaginings were out of his control, and he found that vigorous exercise was the only medicine to ensure a sound, deep sleep. Tonight he would need the relief of exhausted oblivion. She was coming, my god, she was coming. 

He noticed on his walk that the cocktail of his anxiety and being in such a strikingly verdant setting put him in a state of heightened sensitivity. The air was heady with pleasant aromas, and some unpleasant ones. He felt the air, it was palpable, tasted its strangeness. Occasionally the lushness of the island was almost obscene to him; indeed, some of the outrageous blooms and stamens nearly did make him blush. The island felt thriving and vital, and excited him—and the realisation that red flowers and bird chatter stimulated his adrenal glands made him laugh. 

As his hike progressed, his mind emptied, numbed by the rhythm of his stride and breath. After several blissfully thoughtless hours, unbidden, he heard what his name might sound like when breathed from Phryne’s lips in a moment of passion. He heard it as if she were there, tickling his ear lobe with her hot breath. The hallucination tightened his chest, caught his breath, made his walking stutter. He then heard in his imagination her name straining from his throat mid-coitus. He shook his head as if to empty his thoughts through his ears. It appeared that a walk on a tropical island was not the best solution for suppressing lust. 

He knew bone-deep that he wanted to see Phryne, and wanted to kiss her and make love to her—he knew he felt all the time-honoured descriptions of ‘being in love.’ But of what limited use that was, ultimately, to anyone, he also knew very well. Being in love was a fickle thing, something that burns quickly and by necessity morphs. As his walk continued, he considered erotic love. Disdain of it was too strong a description of his feelings, but he did not think of himself as an advocate. It maybe just struck him as too easy or run-of-the-mill. It was not only mundane, but often the cause of grief, of crime. Flesh is so easily mislead; it does not recognise the light of truth. In honesty, maybe he thought he was above it. Maybe he sought a different kind of love, something higher, rarified, something an analytical mind could hold up and be proud of. But had it served him? Would it serve him? Would it serve the woman he loved? 

He returned to the hotel that evening fatigued but still feeling like a live wire. He took a long soak in the tub. He considered the meeting ground of Stoics (himself) and Epicureans (his love). He didn’t have any coherent contribution to the discussion before he started nodding off, and pulled himself from the water. He dressed and lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling in disbelief; he would see her tomorrow. Dear lord, he would see her tomorrow.

———

She saw him before he saw her. He was standing in profile, looking for her on the other side of the ship as it approached. He wore a loosely cut white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a large hat. She knew in theory that in this humidity, on holiday, he would dress differently, but the contrast from his usual dress unsettled her, to the extent that she felt like she was looking at him in an intimate setting without his knowledge, as though he were in pyjamas or undressed for bathing. It was an acknowledgment that he was flesh, that he was human and would get overheated or sun burned just like anyone. He wasn’t a memory anymore, or a letter, or an impervious detective inspector; he was flesh, easy to hurt, easy to love. Her cheeks burned. 

She waved her arm to get his attention. Even from a distance, what struck him about Phryne, what had always struck him about Phryne, was her radiant vitality, evidenced in every expression, every muscle. She reminded him of a cat, ready either to pounce or languidly carouse, but either way, the overall effect was life-affirming. He saw her delighted smile and his heart surrendered unconditionally.

She was of two minds as she walked down the gangplank toward him. Most of her wanted to run headlong into him, with luck pushing him to the ground so they could recline for a bit and giggle like idiots. The other part reminded her that she had no idea what she was doing or what he imagined they were doing, and that it might be best to do the complete opposite of any of her first instincts. Reluctantly, she decided on pulling back. 

She gave him a grin. ‘So, Jack, you’ve been here a few days, right? What can you show me? I’m dying to stretch my legs for longer than a stroll about the decks.’

Her British dialect was more pronounced, which made him smile. He took in as much of her as he could—she was already wanting to roam! He wanted to pin her image down in his memory, like a butterfly in a display case, notated ‘the first time I saw Phryne after the longest separation of our acquaintance.’ He memorised how the breeze blew some of her hair into her mouth and stuck some strands to her lipstick, how her face in the bright light and heat was pinkened, and the occasional whiffs of her perfume that the breeze would send up. He stood looking, absorbing her from a clinical but affectionate distance, then gently pulled her to him and kissed her slowly and deliberately.

She regained her balance as the kiss ended and smiled a slow smile.

‘Hypothetically, if I did not book a room for myself, would I be welcome to stay in yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. I did not book a room for myself.’

Well, maybe she wasn’t pulling back after all.


	4. Chapter 4

The day became a long, slow tease, full of lingering looks and easy caresses. It already had been arranged that they would share a bed that night, and they felt no rush, no urgency. They had all the time in the world. There perhaps was even a bit of sadness, as the long afternoon became a kind of farewell to their old way of being together. Every change is a little death. 

Meanwhile, the tension was exquisite.

When they made to begin their stroll, each somewhat hesitantly reached for the other’s hand. The sensation of their palms touching was electric. As they continued their walk, she would occasionally readjust their gentle grip, flourishing it with a smooth glide of her thumb down his exposed inner forearms. The number of times his breath caught could hardly be reckoned. 

At a small vendor’s cart, they drank tea and had an afternoon snack.

‘How are your parents?’ he asked, thinking he was making innocuous conversation, and unwittingly avoiding it completely.

‘Oh, they kissed and played nice for about a day and a half, and then Father flew into a tizzy about something and Mother cried and sulked. It was a condensed version of my childhood, and I was, as you can imagine, eager to escape.’ After the obvious hurt settled a bit, she broached a question softly: 

‘What are your parents like?’

He considered for a couple of sips. ‘Earnest. Doting.’

‘And with each other? How do they act?’

‘Dad likes to tease, I suppose, tickle and pinch, that sort of thing. Mum is rather sentimental, writes long letters at his birthday. I’ve seen him re-read them. They must be meaningful to him.’

She nodded knowingly.

They roamed to some manicured gardens he had visited the day before. She noticed the suggestive nature of some of the flora as well, and gave him a meaningful smirk. ‘Yes, I know,’ he responded. ‘Some of my orchids can stir the imagination, but these go a little beyond.’ He placed a hand at her low back, letting it slide to her hip. She smiled up at him, feeling a tightness somewhere in her loosen.

They continued to the less populated parts of the city, and out to the city’s edge, eventually coming upon a stretch of darkening beach. The deep pinks and reds of the clouds and sky, set alight by the sinking sun, made them stop their stroll abruptly in the kind of awe that only nature inspires. They sat on the ground for some minutes in a meditative silence. When the gaudiest and most beautiful part of the sunset had passed, the sound of the water became more obvious. 

Still seated on the sand, she teased lightly, ‘On the voyage here, did you hear my voice in every murmuring wave and see my face in the moon?’ 

‘No, though there was another woman on board who smelled of Jicky, and my body’s response was about as subtle as that red bloom in the garden. Also, I did wander the decks at night, imagining flying through space with you.’

‘That is sufficiently romantic.’

‘And did you hear my voice in every murmuring wave…’

‘Your voice could never be replicated, so no. But I would put my lips to your letter. Once my tongue, but it smeared the ink and tasted terrible.’

He kissed her quietly. ‘That is sufficiently romantic.’ He paused and smiled at her, put his hand on her waist, then shifted his gaze to the water. ‘I love you,’ he said quietly and simply.

She was grateful that he averted his eyes from her when he said it— she needed the privacy; how clever of him to realise that. She put her forehead to his neck and breathed slowly, allowing her inhale to mingle his scent with hers and the salty breeze. It would be a scent combination that forever after would give her pause, make her low belly flip and tingle her toes. She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave a slight, tense hum, before another deep breath, after which her rich voice responded: ‘Yes, I gathered.’ One more breath. ‘And I love you.’

The night deepened and stars pressed themselves to view, as she and Jack remained quiet and still at the sea side. The breeze grew cool and they leaned into each other more closely. Soon, the starlight became overwhelming, and she began to feel it as a physical presence, a benevolent one, one that captured her feelings and radiated them for her. She was glad of the help.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m midway through Ms. Greenwood’s book “Away with the Fairies,” and a wonderful nugget revolves around the talented photographic portrait artist who works at Women’s Choice Magazine, who, through her photos, shows people things about themselves that they might not know. Phryne openly admires her work and considers a portrait session, but decides that the portraits reveal too much, and that there are things she doesn’t want to know about herself. In some small part, this chapter is a mini-musing on if she did (inadvertently) plumb those depths.
> 
> Also, I saw the Tumblr post where people revealed their cities, and it has been such a delight imagining you going about your days in your various countries. (Also, now I know who to contact for Australian fact-checking!) I will join you on Tumblr someday; right now I’m just a combination of internet-shy and pressed for time. Anyway, warmest greetings from Zürich, Switzerland. :-)

They made it through the bedroom door, but only just. Half a day of foreplay had taken its toll. 

He opened the door to their room, stepping back a little to let her pass, and she grabbed his hand, tugging his arm such that he was helpless but to bring his mouth down on hers. He closed the door behind him with a backward thrust of his foot, while she moved forward, pushing him gently into the closing door. She glided her hands up his forearms, slipping them under his rolled sleeves, and groaned at the feeling of his skin, his muscle, at having him behind a closed door at last.

‘Jack,’ she breathed, rubbing her nose to his. ‘My Jack.’

That she had claimed him made him feel almost as giddy as his arousal. He wrapped his arms around her, and their tongues began to work in earnest, meeting, pushing, exploring, pleasing.

He asked her hoarsely ‘Do you know what you do to me?’ She thought she might, but was thrilled he was going to show her exactly.

He brought one hand to the back of her head, tilting his head a bit more to allow for a deeper kiss. The kissing began to feel like more than kissing, and she realised that it was loving-- and, at this, she felt herself suppress a sob. He walked her backward to the bed, never releasing her lips, and they tumbled onto the bed. ‘Clothes,’ he all but whimpered, sliding his hands up her skirt to pull away what he could. His reason had left him. She empathised.

She dove her hands into the loose neck of his shirt along his back, briefly stroking what she could reach of his back before she abruptly pulled the shirt up over his head, allowing his warm weight to press her into the bed. Her slim hands were cold on the hot skin of his back, and the sensation of that touch alone was almost too much for him.

Their eyes had adjusted some to the darkness in the room, and they held each other’s gaze, breathing hard. After they had wiggled out of their remaining clothes, she reached up to his abdomen, allowing her hand to trail down to his erection which she gently stroked. He whimpered something indistinct and closed the space between them, resting his erection at her upper thigh. ‘I love you,’ he choked out, ‘I love you.’ Then he sank into her, a gentle glide, a lovely fit. Her eyes closed as she allowed herself to accept his loving. 

A sudden rain began, gusts of wind and wetness coming in from the doors at the balcony, rattling the doors, filling the air in the room with a humid, electric pulse.

She wrapped her legs around his back and felt the tattoo of his thrusts on her cervix, a sweet discomfort that propelled her further into her flight toward oblivion. Her moaning left no hope for Jack, who mingled his own shout with the din of hers.

People with nerves of steel in an emergency have been known to come undone at a Bach cello suite. And so, indomitable adventuresses who cross three continents in a small aeroplane can crumble in a moment of tenderness. After the sustained tension of the flight with her father, re-living childhood strain in her parents’ home, and a sea voyage rife with niggling doubts as to her (to say nothing of her possible-lover’s) intentions, the dam of her reserve broke catastrophically—all at a gentle post-coital kiss. 

Her sobs came as suddenly as the storm and mirrored its intensity. Jack was plenty overcome by their lovemaking himself, his flush and rapid breathing only beginning to subside. When the low sound of her cry began, his heightened awareness let him respond immediately, animal instinct working thoughtlessly to bring her into a tight, comforting embrace. After several minutes, she calmed and caught her breath.

‘Well, this is what you get to love,’ she said, aiming for lightness, but said with more self-deprecation and bitterness than she intended.

‘It is a privilege,’ he replied sincerely.

“Dear Jack. My Jack,” she spoke into his chest, and his heart warmed anew.

The physical exhaustion of their journeys and their day spent walking finally overtook them. They lay together in relief and release, sleeping the peaceful sleep of the happy, of those with mooring. They had come home.


End file.
